


Is he MC Skat Cat and I’m Paula Abdul?

by super_bat



Series: Grimmons Oneshots [2]
Category: Red vs. Blue, rvb - Fandom
Genre: Domestic Fluff, High School AU, M/M, grif has a fetish for simmons' robot strength, season 15 missing scene
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 09:41:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11780484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/super_bat/pseuds/super_bat
Summary: a series of grimmons drabbles and oneshots inspired by various prompts, ranging in length and rating.





	1. I hate titles

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: "Simmons does something cool and/or heroic (bonus if it's got to do with him being a cyborg), Grif is super smitten and in awe."

I don’t hear Simmons scream my name. I know he does because I register his mouth falling open and his face twisting in horror, but my focus is more on the entire slab of metal that seems to moving in slow motion over me, my surroundings blurring out of focus and my body refusing to respond.

Then all of a sudden the slow-mo ceases and everything happens so fast, I don’t even see it. All I know is that I’m on the ground, expecting to be crushed, except I’m not. The giant fucking piece of metal that dislodged itself from our makeshift wall is hovering above me, somehow.

And that “somehow” is one Richard Simmons, who fucking managed to not only dash in between me and the wall in time to protect me, but is, with one hand, holding the entire thing up.

I cannot resist gaping. The robotic hand is spitting a few sparks and making some worrying noises, but is otherwise holding up. Rather fucking impressively.

And it’s at this point I notice where Simmons’ heroic move has placed him. He is directly between me and the wall, using what appears to be every bit of his strength to keep the thing up, and practically face to face with me, body literally lying on top of mine.

I can feel his heaving chest against mine with every huffing breath he takes, and I can see every freckle on his exertion-flushed face. His eyes are greenish brown, I notice for the first time, and they look very intent as his face scrunches up in concentration. Simmons manages to shove the wall up a fraction, and lifts himself an inch off me.

The removal of weight should feel a lot better, but for some godforsaken reason I kind of wish Simmons hadn’t moved. Simmons continues to shove upwards, slowly but surely getting to a standing position as he shoves the slab backwards so it can land the other direction with a heavy, resounding “whump!”

I can feel my eyes drying as I stare the whole way, but I don’t dare fucking blink.

“I…fucking…told you…” Simmons wheezes out, now bent in half, hands on his knees as he tries to regulate his breathing.

I have to shake myself from whatever trance I was fucking in to process what he says. Shock, I tell myself. I was in shock.

“Who fucking cares dude?!” I exclaim. “You just lifted like a million pound wall with one arm!” I probably sound like a child seeing a superhero on TV for the first time.

Simmons is still red from all that effort, but I’d bet money he blushes again from the way he starts stuttering.

“It’s-it’s not like it was me!” he denies. “It’s Sarge’s robot arm! It’s not like I could do something like that normally!”

“Okay, a.” I respond indignantly, “that literally does not make it any less fucking cool, and b. Sarge’s robot arm didn’t fling itself between me and falling debris. You did.”

Simmons looks at me wide-eyed, like he was completely thrown by what I just said. “Oh.” is all he manages.

“Whatever.” I say, already uncomfortable. “Go be weirdly humble somewhere else, I wanna smoke in peace because I almost just fucking died and I don’t need you nagging me about it.”

Simmons, uncharacteristically wordless, stumbles from the room like he’s in a stupor.

And that would have been that, if it had fucking ended there. It didn’t.

I swear to god, if I had known I would wake up that night in a sweat after dreaming about Simmons fucking bench pressing me, I would have let the wall just crush me.  _Why_.

It didn’t get much better after that. Not only was I having weird ass dreams littered through my naps, I was having my precious daydream-while-doing-nothing time invaded too. By fucking Dick “Superhuman Strength” Simmons.

I mean who does the guy fucking think he is, going around lifting things all of a sudden like it’s nothing, looking like Clark fucking Kent while he swoops to my rescue. Rude fucking asshole.

I snort to myself over my own Clark Kent analogy, because Simmons actually does wear glasses and looks like a major fucking nerd. Then I frown, realizing it makes me the Lois Lane in this scenario. Then who would Lex Luthor be?

Sarge. Definitely Sarge.

I’m manly laughing to myself, not giggling or anything, over the idea of Doc as Batman, and Donut as Robin fussing over the color of his tights, when Simmons comes in the room.

“Ha!” he shouts. “I can hear you laughing! You can’t pretend like you’re sleeping and can’t hear me!”

I’m still chuckling. “Whatever, Clark Kent.” I snort.

“Clark Ken -  _Superman_? Is that why you’ve been acting weird around me lately? Are you still hung up on my robot strength?!” Simmons asks, like he’s just discovered something.

“Uh, what?” I answer, like I don’t know what he’s been talking about. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Simmons’ face does that thing it does when he’s irritated with me (so pretty much all the time,) and it looks like a cross between “angry” and “sucking on a lemon.”

“Dexter Grif,” and oh no, that his boring-ass lecture voice. “You know good and well you’ve been avoiding me for days, making up bizarre excuses so we don’t have to be in the same room, pretending like you’re sleeping until I leave, and then staring at me incessantly when we actually have to be in the same place at the same time.”

Simmons takes a breath, and then his tone takes on a note of insecurity I really don’t like as he stares down at his prosthetic hand.

“Does it actually bother you that much now?”

My mouth dries and my instincts push me to correct him and stop that pathetic kicked-puppy sound from coming from his mouth ever again, before I can process what I’m saying at all:

“No! Dude! It’s because I fucking love it!”

Simmons does a completely visible double take, and I would have probably laughed if I wasn’t just realizing I had put myself in a really uncomfortable position.

“..what do you mean?” Simmons asks, suspiciously.

This is precarious territory, I tell myself. On one hand, I might be able to bullshit my way out of what I just said, but downside, then Simmons would sound like that again; or I could just go with it since I had already incriminated myself.

My foot scuffs the ground as I kick it back and forth, considering my options.

“Ok,” I finally allow, “It was kind of…hot, alright?”

Simmons still looks like he’s not buying it and I groan in exasperation.

“Look, I’m having fucking fantasies about you being all macho-strong and heroic, manhandling me and shit, being all noble. It’s annoying as hell and your fucking fault so I’m pissed at you and don’t want to be in the same room. Are you happy now?!”

Simmons looks like I pulled a few wires from the mess of them in the back of his head. One of his eyes is even twitching. And then all of a sudden, it’s like a switch is flipped in him. Literally, as it would be for a cyborg like him.

He charges from his rooted spot on the floor, and I immediately start reversing towards the wall when it’s clear he’s not stopping on his way to me. He crowds up in my space as my back hits solid rock, and his robotic hand slams beside my head. I force a gulp past the sudden lump in my throat.

“Like this?” he whispers, and jesus christ when the  **fuck**  did that asshole get  _smooth_?! That’s not fucking fair.

I don’t feel my mouth fall open, but Simmons apparently notices because he takes advantage of it and suddenly he kissing me. Richard Simmons is kissing me. While he’s got me pinned to a wall -  _fucking_  hell. I throw myself into the kiss too, abruptly very into the idea.

His tongue isn’t shy in the slightest, and it makes its way around my mouth, as his lips move against mine. The heat of his breath is mixing with mine and making a visible cloud in the slightly chilly room. I nip back at his lower lip when one of his teeth catches mine, and he makes a  _really_  nice, appreciative groaning noise.

Simmons pulls back way before I’m ready for him to, but I don’t give him shit because I know he’s had breathing problems ever since I stole one of his lungs.

His face is burning up, and any confidence he had just displayed is apparently long evaporated, a much more familiar sheepish expression making itself at home on him.

“I-I don’t know why I did that.” He stammers.

I gasp out a short laugh. “Dude, who fucking cares?” I pull him back to me, arm behind his back. “Just do it the fuck again.”


	2. Missing Scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "reunion." This is the scene we were all desperately missing from season 15.

Simmons stares at Jax on the floor.

“Was that really necessary?” Simmons asks, though he doesn’t sound like he actually minds.

“Yes.” Grif answers without hesitation. “I wasn’t actually going to let him get it on camera.”

“Get wha-” Simmons starts, before he’s interrupted by Grif practically tearing his helmet off and smashing his mouth on his own.

Simmons is so shocked he doesn’t move, but he manages to take note that Grif has no technique at all, is just clumsily and sloppily pressing their lips together, teeth clacking.

It’s over as fast as it happened, and Grif steps back, his chest slightly heaving.

“Um.” Simmons tries to process.

“Look,” Grif interrupts whatever Simmons had been trying to say, “I said it earlier, but I’ll say it again. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I shouldn’t have left you guys. I shouldn’t have left at all, but I especially shouldn’t have left you.”

Simmons is, for once, at a complete loss for words, brain giving him nothing more than some screeching sounds.

Grif runs his hand nervously through his dark brown curls, which are a lot longer than when he last saw them, Simmons realizes somewhere in the back of his mind.

“And, man, being alone, away from you all…” his eyes dart quickly to Simmons and back away again, “…away from you, was fucking hell. I don’t ever want that again.”

Everything that’s happening, everything Grif is saying, finally hits Simmons like a ton of bricks and he barely has a few seconds to think about his own feelings before he’s launching himself at Grif, arms encircling him and pulling tight.

“Then don’t fucking leave again, asshole.” he mumbles into Grif’s neck as he struggles to not let the tears building in the corners of his eyes spill over.

Grif’s arms reach around to return the hug, clinging just as tightly; and maybe the armor doesn’t make for the most comfortable situation, but Simmons absolutely would not trade this for fucking anything. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "Grif and Simmons watching bad horror movies. Simmons keeps pointing out the bad plots and decisions characters make. Grif finds Simmons commentary more enjoyable then the movie."

The movie is ass. It’s worse than ass, actually. The hot blonde chicks are too dumb to actually be hot, and the sex scenes are worse and more fake than cheap pornos. The jump scares make the sex scenes look oscar worthy.  
  
I probably would have fallen asleep 10 minutes in had it not been for Simmons’ running commentary.

“And the complete idiocy of trying to reenter the basement door to retrieve the flashlight! Like it should be completely obvious that they could go out the front door and around the house to the back doors and be way safer? It’s like they’re trying to get themselves eaten.”  
  
I snort. “They are. It’s in the script. If horror movie characters weren’t that stupid there would be no movie.”  
  
Simmons glares at me. I love his glares; he thinks he’s intimidating, but he’s not so they’re just sort of cute. Kind of like a puppy trying to growl.  
  
“That’s just an excuse for lazy writing and directing, which now that I think about it, is exactly the kind of thing you would try to defend.”  
  
I roll my eyes, but don’t disagree. Simmons turns his eyes back to the television but mine stay right where they have been the whole time: watching Simmons facial expressions in response to the film with great amusement.  
  
His eyebrows do this thing where they scrunch up in the middle really close when he’s thinking really hard about something, and his nose curls up on one side when he’s disgusted by something else. And during any sexual scene (or really any scene with the Hot Blonde Chicks in them) his pale skin goes a bright red that blots out the freckles scattered across his nose. He also gets dry mouth during the most raunchy scenes, which I know because he compulsively licks his lips over and over during them, which is even funnier because I also know its involuntary.  
  
I see his eyes get that slightly-off look they do when he’s super focused, and I see him tracking one particular character through all the scenes.  
  
I keep listening to his comments here and there, inputting a word or two, waiting for the right moment to insert my question while I know he’s not paying enough attention to me to think critically about it and answer dishonestly.  
  
I hear him remark on the foolishness of one of the girls keeping her heels on even though they’re being chased, and I go for it.

“So which one do you think is actually hotter? The blonde with big tits, the blonde with little tits, the brunette, or the redhead?” I ask nonchalantly, just like every other time I’ve thrown a question like this at him.  
  
“Hmm? oh, the redhead.” he answers, entirely distracted like I had expected. I’m still shocked he actually said it though.  
  
I feel him go rigid next to me. Shit. He noticed. Maybe I shouldn’t have done that.  
  
Simmons isn’t moving, and I start to immediately regret doing that. I know any second he’s going to go into panic mode and run from the couch, and I probably won’t see him again for months while he has a crisis in his room alone.

I scramble to think of something that might put him at more ease, stop him from freaking out right away. I blurt the first thing that comes to me.  
  
“Me too.”  
  
Simmons breaks from his human-statue imitation to swivel his head at me. I stare unblinkingly at the movie, like nothing unusual is happening. My hands are sweating and I can feel Simmons’ eyes on my face.

“There….there is no redheaded chick in this movie.” he states, like I’m a moron who hadn’t noticed.  
  
I swallow thickly and hope it doesn’t show and I try say as normally as possible: “I never said 'redheaded chick,' I said 'the redhead.'"I try to convey mockery in my tone of voice, like I’m making fun of him for being dumb or something.  
  
I shift my eyes slightly so I can catch his expression, and boy is it worth it. He looks like a fish out of fucking water, mouth gaping open then closed, his robot brain probably reading him a “404: not found” message as he tries to reconcile “Dexter Grif” with “finding hot redheaded guy hot.”  
  
I do him a favor and talk first, offering a grin that comes easily due to the hilarious expression on his face. “What can I say? I have a type.”  
  
It’s absolutely incredible to see the exact moment a man’s brain stops functioning at all, and you know that he’s skipped right past “panicked, shocked response” to “complete shutdown because processing is impossible.”  
  
I reach for the popcorn bowl, (because what situation isn’t immediately ten times better with snacks?) and pretend like I’m paying attention to the movie again.

“Look,” I try, “small-tits blonde is going alone into the locked room without a light. Fuckin’ idiot.”  
  
It takes a second, but I hear Simmons suck a shaky breath before he pushes out a chuckle.   
  
“Yeah, like it’s not completely obvious that’s where the thing lives.”  
  
And then the moment’s over. It was less an 30 seconds, and I felt for a second like I imagined half the things I thought just happened because it all suddenly went right back to normal.  
  
I feel Simmons slide closer on the couch to me, his leg lining up against mine, and arm reaching across the backrest behind my head. I resume my careful attention back to Simmons’ face, resting on his red curls that fall behind the lenses of his glasses to irritate is eyes whenever he blinks, as he keeps talking about how illogical it is for the group to split up, eyes not moving from the screen.  
  
 _Ok, maybe not completely the same._  I think to myself as I feel Simmons’ fingertips brush the back of my hand.  _Fuck yeah Grif, you suave motherfucker._


	4. this is too short for a title

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "breakup."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was sent in by my friend who is an emo little shit, but I wasn't going to let her win so this is not what it seems like and completely angst free.

Simmons' heart beats faster as he processes what Grif just said, and goes over it a few times before confusedly responding “…what?”

 

Grif stares straight back at his questioning eyes. “You heard me.” he says. “I just can’t be with someone who would rate golden oreos over chocolate double stuff. It’s sacrilege or something.”

 

Simmons looks very intently at Grif before he tries to speak again, breaking out into sputters as he wonders what dimension he’s been tossed into.

 

“Grif! We aren't even 'together!' You can’t break up with someone you’re not even dating! How does that work?!”

 

Grif shrugs a lazy shoulder. “I’m best friend breaking up with you. Donut-ugh, _gross_ -now has moved up in his position.”

 

Simmons knows that he’s being weird but he still can’t stop his sharp intake of breath and the whisper that escapes without his control:

 

“You mean I’m your best friend?”

 

Grif actually bothers to roll over from his lounging position to look at Simmons with a mocking grin. “Uh, not anymore, dumbass.” he teases.

 

Simmons doesn’t understand the facial expression Grif makes at him, something like incredulity morphing to minorly-panicked concern, until he realizes that there are actually a couple of tears leaking down his face.

 

“Dude, I was kidding, please don’t-Donut isn’t actually-are you actually fucking crying?!” Grif exclaims in a rush.

 

Simmons buries his face in his hands in embarrassment. “I know, shut up you fucking idiot!” a choked off laugh escapes unbidden.

 

Grif sounds extremely confused. “…what the hell is happening right now?”

 

Simmons summons a deep breath and a little bit of courage before he admits, “I’ve never been important enough to be someone’s best friend before. I kinda thought you just hung around me because you like messing with me.”

 

Simmons has never seen Grif look gobsmacked before, and its a little funny to see directed at himself.

 

“You mean to tell me…” Grif tosses out like a rhetorical, “…that this whole time you thought I put up with your annoying bitch-ass for some _other_ reason than actually liking you?” he asks with a note of complete disbelief.

 

Simmons looks away from Grif, his face burning with shame. “Maybe. I sort of maybe also thought you did it to mess with my head and remind me that no one actually likes me.”

 

Simmons hears no response, and the minutes seem to tick away, but he can’t bring himself to look back at Grif. Until he feels a heavy impact to the back of his skull that knocks him backwards.

 

 _A pillow._ His mind helpfully observes.

 

He finally hears Grif huff. “You know what, you fucker? I’m going to go out with you for the SOLE reason of being able to actually breakup with you for that dumb-as-shit idea. I’m actually seriously fucking offended right now.” Grif says, not actually sounding offended at all.

 

Simmons can’t quite keep the grin off his face. He pretends not to hear Grif continue mumbling, “...what the hell did you dad fucking do to you?” as he maneuvers himself so he can flop back down right beside Simmons, situating himself as Simmons knows his face is turning a beet red.

 

They lay there a moment, in comfortable silence, before Grif extends his right arm over is chest in a fist and leaves it offered to Simmons.

 

“But for real dude, you know you actually are my best friend right?”

 

Simmons knows he is embarrassingly red, but offers a half grin and meets Grif’s fist with a bump from his own.

 

“…yeah. I do.”


End file.
